


Best Car, Nicest Smile, and Most Likely to Succeed

by tamerofdarkstars



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Natasha Is a Good Bro, Puppetmaster Natasha Romanov, Ridiculous amounts of fluff, SO MUCH FLUFF, Yearbook, most likely to be two giant dorks in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 11:50:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4136391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamerofdarkstars/pseuds/tamerofdarkstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil is the head of the yearbook committee - absolutely nothing gets into the final yearbook layout without going through him first. </p><p>Or at least, that's how it was supposed to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Best Car, Nicest Smile, and Most Likely to Succeed

**Author's Note:**

> What do you mean no one asked for uselessly fluffy Clint/Coulson high school au cliches?

“Did you see it?”

Phil blinks once and looks up from his book, working his way from the confused realization that he isn’t actually currently in Rivendell with Bilbo Baggins after all back to the reality of the lunchroom, and examines Natasha Romanov. She’s standing across from his empty lunch table, a slim hardbound maroon book in her hands and a twitch to her lips that, for Natasha, may as well be a full-on belly laugh.

Phil reaches for his bookmark and mourns the loss of his reading time.

“See what?” he asks, putting _The Hobbit_ aside as Natasha hands him the book.

It’s the yearbook. Graduation is in less than a week and the yearbook committee’s been working overtime to get this edition out in time for the seniors to get it signed with well-wishes and glitter-pen hearts before going off to university. Phil frowns, mildly confused.

“Yes, I’ve seen the yearbook, Natasha, I’m on the committee,” Phil opens the book, flipping through the glossy pages, glancing critically at the formatting for spring sports. “I’m the one who approved the final layout.”

Natasha sits next to him, folding her long legs gracefully beneath her as she reaches for the book, flipping past the drama club’s spread and the music program’s page-and-a-half until she hits mock elections.

Phil gives her an exasperated look. “Is this about that ridiculous ‘most likely to be a robot’ thing? I told Stark not to print that one.”

“Not that.”

If Phil didn’t know her better, he might say that Natasha’s voice almost sounded… gleeful.

He returns his eyes to the page, skimming the election results. Steve Rogers won “most likely to be a superhero”, no surprises there. In fact, none of them are particularly shocking – Tony Stark won “best dressed” and “most likely to succeed”, Natasha swept “most likely to rule the world”, and Bruce Banner won “most likely to cure cancer”.

Natasha taps the bottom of the second page and Phil looks.

And swallows.

 _Fuck_.

“Neither of you told me,” – yep, that’s definitely glee in Natasha’s voice – “I’m hurt, Phil, really.”

“I’m going to kill Tony Stark,” Phil says faintly, staring down at the photo. It’s glossy and unobtrusive, lined up perfectly with the rest of the photos, but Phil doesn’t remember seeing it. Hell, he doesn’t even remember this being _taken_.

He’s bent over something – a book, a stack of papers, it’s hard to tell exactly – with a pen in his hand but he’s not looking at the book. The Phil in the photo is looking up and to his left, an exasperated sort of affectionate smile on his face as he gazes adoringly at Clint Barton. Clint is sitting on the desk next to Phil, clearly mid-laugh, eyes on Phil and beneath the picture, in little black letters, are the words

**Phil Coulson and Clint Barton – Best Couple.**

“Adorable,” Natasha coos and Phil reaches up to rub at his eyes, feeling the beginning of a headache.

He and Clint aren’t even _together_. Not that Phil doesn’t want to be, but—ok, Clint Barton is so far out of Phil’s league they’re not even playing the same sport.

Clint is insanely good-looking, in the archery club, a total sarcastic smart-ass, and the way he uses his ASL skills to sign at Natasha across the classroom like they’re in their own little world practically brings Phil to his knees every time he catches a glimpse of it.

Also, aside from Natasha, Clint Barton happens to be Phil’s best friend.

His best friend who absolutely does not need to know that Phil’s been stupid in love with him since they were forced to be chemistry partners freshman year.

So, yeah, definitely not doing anything to rock that boat.

Except the boat has been rocked and it’s been rocked to shit. Phil is slowly realizing the entire cafeteria is carrying copies of the yearbook, pointing at pictures and grinning and he groans, putting down the book and burying his face in his hands.

“Has Barton seen this?” he asks, almost afraid of Natasha’s answer.

“He skipped history,” she says, as if that explains the entire thing, and stands fluidly, stealing what remains of Phil’s turkey sandwich. “He’s probably in the range.”

She drops a light kiss on the top of his head and walks away, munching his sandwich. Phil watches her go and feels like she’s stealing his sanity with every step she takes. He looks back down at the lunch table and considers his options.

Then, Phil stands up, sweeping the remains of his lunch into the trash, grabbing the yearbook and _The Hobbit_ , and heads for the doors.

It takes him an extremely short amount of time to find Clint, because he’s exactly where Phil expects him to be – the archery range under the gym is the result of the club bartering with the school board for a solid seven years, a mantle Clint had taken up with gusto when he’d entered high school four years into the good fight. Phil can still remember the excitement in Clint’s eyes as he burst into the student council meeting, shouting about how they’d done it, Phil, we did it, the board’s gettin’ us a range!

The memory tugs a smile out of him as he stands in the doorway, waiting for Clint to run out of arrows.

Clint’s standing in stance, facing the target, focus in every line of his body and face. He releases and draws in almost perfect synchronization, _thwack, thwack, thwack_ , peppering the target with little clusters of arrows.

Finally, he reaches for an arrow to find his quiver empty and with a sigh, puts his bow down.

“Getting a little slow, there, Barton,” Phil teases softly, and Clint jerks in surprise.

“Phil! The fuck, man, how long have you been standing there?”

“Half-quiver,” Phil steps inside the room and lets the door fall shut behind him. Clint grins at him, hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, and goes to tug off his arm guard. “Have you been here all day? What about class?”

Clint shrugs and Phil notices the tension in his shoulders, a different sort than he should have after working with his bow for hours. Clint unwinds his arm guard and reaches for his backpack and Phil spies the now familiar maroon cover nestled against the physics textbook.

Ah. So Clint had seen it.

“Assuming you saw it, then?” Phil asks, wanting to get this over with as soon as possible, and Clint twitches.

“Not one to beat around the damn bush, are you, Coulson,” he mutters. Clint crosses the room and sits down on one of the waiting benches. After a brief second of hesitation, Phil joins him.

For a second, the range is awkwardly silent.

“I can probably get it changed—”

“It’s ok, I know it doesn’t mean anything—”

They both start to speak at the same time, words tripping over each other. Clint clamps his mouth shut so tightly Phil thinks he hears his teeth clack.

The silence falls again, thicker this time. Phil sighs and reaches up to rub at his eyes.

“I mean,” Clint’s voice is quiet, “it’s not like it’s a big deal. We’re not, you know…”

“Dating?” Phil asks and hates himself a little for the wistful tone he can’t quite keep out of his voice.

“Yeah, that,” Clint mumbles.

There’s another long stretch of quiet and Phil feels it prick at the back of his neck. The range smells like new rubber and sweat, and Clint is sitting so still on the bench next to him that Phil keeps shooting him tiny glances, just to make sure he’s still there.

“Be kinda funny if we were, though.”

Phil blinks, not sure he heard Clint right. “What would?”

“If we were dating,” Clint shifts in the seat, glancing sideways at Phil. “If we were dating and we beat Steve and Stark out for cutest couple? Stark’d have a shitfit.”

Phil snorts despite himself. “That would be something,” he admits, letting the idea of dating Clint Barton warm him to the core.

“A total shitfit,” Clint bumps Phil’s shoulder with his own. “It’d almost be worth giving it a try. You know. To see Stark’s face.”

“Yeah,” Phil chuckles, looking out at the range. Then Clint’s words sink in. “Wait, what?”

Clint isn’t looking at him, jaw tight, color splashed on his cheekbones and Phil’s heart thumps painfully against his sternum.

“Clint,” he begins but Clint cuts him off.

“Forget it, it’s stupid,” he jackknifes to his feet and grabs his backpack from the floor, motions jerky and uncoordinated. They look strange, especially since Phil has always known Clint to be graceful, every motion easy and fluid.

Phil leaps to his feet, lunges, grabbing for Clint’s hand. His fingers brush skin and he steps closer, closing his fingers around Clint’s wrist.

Clint doesn’t move, backpack slung over one shoulder, eyes glued to the floor and Phil takes a steadying breath.

“It might be worth a try,” he says carefully, eyes on the side of Clint’s head, blood beating a tattoo on the inside of his skull, “but not to see Stark’s face.”

The quiet in the range is louder than any silence Phil has ever heard.

“What do you mean?” Clint asks, a little hoarse, and Phil swallows his pride and his panic and straightens his shoulders.

“It might be worth a try,” Phil repeats, “but not to see Stark’s face.”

“Yeah, caught that bit,” Clint tries for a grin and Phil huffs a soft laugh, more of a nervous breath than anything else.

Out in the hall, the bell is ringing, insistent, and footsteps thump as students move their way to their next class. Phil doesn’t move, and neither does Clint. They wait, watching each other, as the footsteps eventually fade and the range is once again theirs.

Clint licks his lips and the grin fades a bit. “Phil, listen…”

Hope is so thick and sweet, cloyingly so, trapped in Phil’s throat that he doesn’t think he could bear it if Clint’s next words are a kind but firm let-down.

“—for me. So…”

Shoot. Phil was so wrapped up in his own internal panic that he completely missed Clint’s words.

“What?”

Clint’s expression shutters. “Look, if you don’t… I mean, it’s fine. I didn’t think…”

“No, Clint—” Phil reaches impulsively and his fingers find Clint’s other wrist, closing gently. When Clint doesn’t pull away, he carefully wraps their fingers together, stepping closer so their hands hang between them, linked. “I just… what did you say?”

Clint takes a breath. He’s looking down, at their hands. “This wouldn’t just be a… thing. For me.”

“Thing?”

It’s a dangerous thing, hope.

Clint looks up suddenly, something fierce and defiant in his expression, and his fingers flex in Phil’s. “In the picture,” he starts, then stops. He takes a breath and starts again. “In the picture, you’re looking at me.”

“I look at you a lot, Barton,” Phil can’t stop the dry sarcasm and Clint’s lips twitch.

“Not like that picture,” he says softly, and the humor of the moment vanishes. “Never like that.”

Phil’s heart stutters in his chest and he swallows. “You must not be very observant, then,” he all but whispers. They’re getting closer, somehow, without moving.

Clint looks desperately, unbearably hopeful, almost like something he never dreamed of was suddenly at his fingertips. “I’m very observant,” he croaks, eyes flickering from Phil’s eyes to his lips and back. A thrill flies up Phil’s spine and when had Clint gotten this close to him? “Eyes like a hawk, remember?”

Phil’s trying to come up with something clever to say – some kind of bird pun, maybe – when Clint’s hand flexes in his, his head dips, and suddenly any propensity for speech Phil has flies right out the window.

Clint’s lips are dry, and Phil can see his eyes are closed, squeezed shut, almost like he needed to screw up his courage to move those last few millimeters.

For a moment, Phil feels like he’s floating above himself, detached, almost clinical, until Clint breaks the kiss, slowly leaning backwards. There’s something dazed and hooded in his eyes, like he’s waiting for Phil to say something. Anything.

But Phil can’t form words – Clint kissed him. _Clint_ kissed _him._

“Clint,” he says, helplessly, and Clint huffs a soft, nervous laugh. He looks like he’s about to start apologizing, of all things, and Phil’s heart slams against his ribs. He releases Clint’s hand – he hadn’t even realized he’d been squeezing it – and reaches for him. He takes Clint’s face in both hands, letting his fingers settle into Clint’s hair, and drags him back into another kiss.

And this time, he doesn’t hold back, taking charge of the kiss, sweeping his tongue over Clint’s stunned lips. Clint groans, a tiny desperate noise, and his hands come up to grip Phil’s shoulders, his arms, and Phil’s knees go weak.

What a cliché – he didn’t think that actually happened in real life. But then, Phil’s never kissed Clint Barton.

Seconds later – or maybe minutes, who can tell? – and they break for air. Clint’s eyes are blown wide and as Phil stares, Clint licks his lips, and Phil knows it’s hopeless. He’s done, trapped, lost, marooned – he is a boat tossed in stormy waves and Clint is his dock.

For a beat, they just gaze at each other.

“Phil,” Clint murmurs and just the sound of his name makes Phil smile.

He reaches for him, stretching out his hand, and Clint had just taken it, linking their fingers, when suddenly, above them, the school-wide intercom crackles.

“ _Phil Coulson and Clint Barton, please stop making out in the janitor’s closet and report to history before Rogers has an aneurysm about this group project. Repeat – Phil Coulson and Clint Barton. History. If I gotta be here, so do y—ow! Steve, what the fuck!?”_

The intercom cuts out abruptly. For a moment, there’s nothing but stunned silence in the archery range.

Then Clint bursts out laughing and Phil tips his head back in fond exasperation, closing his eyes.

“Suppose he did it from the office?” Phil asks, and Clint shakes his head.

“Bastard’s probably got the system hooked to his cell phone. Pepper’s gonna kick his ass – I’m pretty sure she’s office aide this hour.”

Phil opens his eyes and grins at Clint, whose eyes are crinkled in fondness.

“Suppose we should head back.”

“Yeah,” Phil steps into Clint’s space and Clint ducks, swiftly, planting a kiss on Phil’s forehead. It hits Phil then, that this, this moment right here is normal now. It’s the new natural, and the thought spirals up through Phil’s stomach into his throat, tightening it in the best way.

Later, as he and Steve Rogers listen to Stark and Clint argue about World War II, Phil sneaks the maroon yearbook out of Clint’s backpack and flip it to the picture that started it all. He uncaps a sharpie and considers his words, and then signs it above their heads, next to their award.

When he looks up, Steve is grinning at him, and he flushes, capping the sharpie and sliding the book back in Clint’s backpack.

After all, Phil’s the head of the yearbook committee. Nothing goes into the yearbook that he doesn’t approve first.

He thinks of the picture and glances at Natasha, who’s smiling mysteriously at him, and he can’t help but smile back at her.

Well, ok almost nothing.

 


End file.
